


A Winter's Promise

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Fluff, Gay, It's A Complicated Russian Romance, M/M, sick Anatole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 16:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: He was far from his home and the winter weather wasn’t generous with its warm days, snow often caught in his puffy hair and chapping his handsome lips, flakes weaving through his eyelashes like wool would a loom. The way his cheeks flushed a crimson red like chokeberries made Dolokhov surrender to the other, submitting his often overly-warm hands to his cheeks and his feverish, rough lips to coax the other’s chilled body into a peaceful temperature. Somedays he wondered if Anatole purposely didn’t wear a hat or gloves so he could steal kisses from him, knowing how willing Dolokhov was to baby him.“Before you sleep for the night, will you make me a promise?”“And what would that be?”Anatole gazed up at him, noticing the tears that were threatening to escape his lover’s eyes.





	A Winter's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself that I would write fluff instead of angst, but I'm bad at promises, especially to myself. Have some fluff and angst to better and ruin your day at the same time!   
> <3

The times when Anatole ransacked his bed and made a fortress of blankets, pillows and skin to protect him from the outside world were the times when Dolokhov would cave to his feelings and offer his care and comfort to his forbidden lover.

The confident air that usually surrounded the blonde often came down when he was distressed, which was often nowadays. He was far from his home and the winter weather wasn’t generous with its warm days, snow often caught in his puffy hair and chapping his handsome lips, flakes weaving through his eyelashes like wool would a loom. The way his cheeks flushed a crimson red like chokeberries made Dolokhov surrender to the other, submitting his often overly-warm hands to his cheeks and his _feverish, rough_ lips to coax the other’s chilled body into a peaceful temperature. Some days he wondered if Anatole purposely didn’t wear a hat or gloves so he could steal kisses from him, knowing how willing Dolokhov was to baby him.

Though sometimes, even the tea wouldn’t soothe his coarse lips or warm his chilled core.

Anatole came down with terrible fevers during the winter, and Dolokhov always had fear overflowing his heart each time he fell ill. The doctors always said that Anatole was strong-willed, though the more he got sick the more paranoid Dolokhov would become, so he would cherish each moment that the blonde would curl to his side, fever or not, and make sure to relish each moment, not wanting to forget a second. Sickness wasn’t easy to overcome all the time, especially when you don’t have too much money to find a remedy each time. When you were a refugee to Petersburg, the position of a prince wouldn’t be worth half of its salt.

“I feel so _cold_ , Fedya...”

Dolokhov wasn’t very fond of the name, unless it came from Anatole’s lips. He brought his usually calloused fingers up to gently brush against his lover’s lips, feeling how _agitated_ they felt. A frown creased across his face as he noticed how his fever was still lingering, though it wasn’t as terrible as it was before. He was gracious that it was dying down, but he wished that it wouldn’t cause the young man so much turmoil.

“Shh…it’s just the fever, mon cher. It’ll pass over soon.”

He tried to convince him of this but also drew him closer. If he was cold, he would provide heat. His arms tangled around the other as ivy would and encased him into the confines of his chest and forearms, burying his nose and lips into his beautiful head of golden locks. His hair lingered of heat and sickness, but also the faint sent of a patchouli and lavender lingering in his roots. He inhaled deeply as if to memorize the way the man smelled, always scared that he would disappear some day and he would never experience him again. The bear pelts that were layered on the bed were soon pulled up to cocoon around them, capturing the heat around them in an attempt to swaddle and sway the fever that plagued his love.

The way that Anatole fiddled with the hem of his shirt was something that he was used to. The long, wispy fingers glided in a cherishing way as they seemed to search for something. For some time they lingered on the scar that he had earned when he had been challenged to a duel by Anatole’s brother-in-law. He could remember the way that Anatole wailed into his bedside when he was having the bullet removed, and how he apologized for the pain he felt and how he should have stopped the man. The ride from there hurt even more when he tried to elope with Natalia Rostova. However, they were now all each other had left, and to be completely honest, it was the way that Dolokhov preferred it. Nobody could take his Anatole away from him now. He was too attached. It would break him more than it had before if Anatole were to leave again.

  He could tell that Anatole felt his stress when his hand travelled from the wound and to his heart, gently playing with the hair that was there, but mostly feeling his heartbeat.

_Thud, thud. Thud, thud._

 Instead of saying anything, Dolokhov kissed his forehead and eased into his touch, allowing himself to _melt_ against the other’s hot hands, finding it hard to keep his eyes open to tend to his needs.

“Would you like some tea, love?”

His question was filled with concern, grimacing when Anatole gazed up at him with glassy, sad, confused eyes. He parted his lips to say something but the only thing that came out was a violent cough, and Anatole instantly looked scared when he looked back up, noticing that he had coughed all over the burly man. “I’m sorry..I did not mean to do that. Please, don’t be mad.”

The blonde had a habit of being apologetic, _scared_ of hurting Dolokhov again. He wasn’t scared when he thought that he was madly in love with Natasha Rostova…and that was the biggest mistake of his life. He didn’t want to imagine the grief that it caused the man who was selfless enough to write love letters to a woman he despised and to aid him in an affair he didn’t support. How could he ever dare do anything to upset him again?

“Shh, do not worry about it. Would you like some tea?”

Dolokhov repeated the question to assure him that he wasn’t mad. He hated the worry that clouded Anatole’s eyes. The confidence the blonde once had was burnt away through fever and recovery. He pressed their foreheads together, allowing their noses to nestle against each other in an attempt to comfort him.

“Please do not leave me. I do not want tea. I want you to stay with me. That would be enough for me.” He then offered another brief cough, his lungs wheezing when he did this time. He urged Dolohov closer, tangling their legs together messily, a small quake in them from the chills that raked up his body. One of the brunette’s muscular hands grasped onto his thigh and drew him closer and then allowed it to travel back into the nest of luscious yellow wisps.

“I promise you tea in the morning and a fresh cup of medicine. If you’re really feeling up to it, a piece of bread…and another day of rest in bed.” He massaged the other’s fragrant scalp, a meek moan leaving the lover’s lips in content, burying his head in the crook between his chin and his chest, inhaling the scent of dirt and sweat that Dolokhov often bore. The radiating warmth and the promise of a home in his arms caused the sickly man to snuggle against the broad chest in front of him, beginning to slowly drift towards slumber.

“Before you sleep for the night, will you make me a promise?”

“And what would that be?”

“Please wear your coat and your gloves. I couldn’t bear to lose you again. Not permanently. “

Anatole gazed up at him, noticing the tears that were threatening to escape his lover’s eyes. He rubbed his hand on his warm chest, wishing that he could soothe his hurting heart. Along with the fear he could see something much deeper than that…something raw. It caused him to shudder with delight and fear. Was this what love felt like? The feeling of never wanting to leave someone? The feeling that you could not fathom to share them or let go, even through sickness?

He had never experienced that type of feeling before.

Not before Dolokhov.

A soft kiss was shared and they lips mingled for just a few moments, savoring the sickly affection and the indulgence of their sentimental attachment. Dolokhov’s hand withdrew from his own sleeve to slither up his shirt and rested on top of the other’s hand so that it rested between their chests, their unison heartbeats soothing any doubts that he had.

“If it means I get to live out the rest of my days with you then I promise to take every caution imaginable.”


End file.
